Snowside Manner
by flotsam-junk
Summary: Bond finds Q in the moments between abduction and rescue.


A/N: I haven't used FF since I tried writing Pokemon crossovers back when I was 12 (we don't talk about it). So I apologize if this formatting is all sorts of awful. I'm cross-posting from AO3, where you can find me as "Somnambulist." You can also find me at my wasteland of a tumblr, the-flotsam-junk. You should really come talk to me over there. I'll write _thiiiiings_ for you.

Okay, thanks for reading this. xoxo

* * *

The first thing to return was the noise, foggy and undulating as though beat inconsistently on a distant drum. He tried to make sense of the rhythms, gave a lazy command of his hazed-over mind to listen for the repetition, but his ears felt clouded over and the words appeared transcribed across a flickering monitor.

"Q-"

The single syllable was lost like sparks to concrete. Static resumed. His eyes twitched, but the sound did not return for several seconds.

"Q."

Closer now. The tide was coming in, pulling with it distinct letters and sounds.

"Q!"

The closest yet. Q tilted his head towards the source, the weight of his eyelids still an obstacle to the innumerable amounts of fatigue beckoning him with every slow movement. But he was swiftly helped along by a narrow, blunt finger pulling his brow and flooding white-bright light into his eyes. He squinted as the illuminated blob of 007 met his foggy gaze, eyes piercing through the snow-filtered sunlight.

"Q." came a quiet response, soaked in relief. Bond's voice reined in the spastic rhythms, his cool cadence light and airy and floating across the front of Q's brain like mist.

Q willed his frozen face to move, could feel his lips cracking like clay in the sun as he maneuvered his lips in preparation to speak. As if on cue at the first sign of movement, daggers shot across his head, assaulting the space between his eyebrows and undoing all his hard work in finally opening his eyes. The smile slid off his face, replaced by a groan of surprised agony.

"Easy there... Concussion. Cracked ribs. Sprained ankle and multiple lacerations." Bond listed off in silent understanding of Q's thirst for information. As he spoke his fingers ghosted over each injury, his other hand back on Q's forehead and rubbing a soothing thumb over his hairline. "You've a great bloody lump on the back of your head, so sit still and count digits of pi or whatever that brain of yours does for fun."

Q attempted a laugh that sounded more like a choke. "Blunt as ever, Bond. I see now flunking out of Bedside Manner 101 in medical training is what landed you in field work." he mumbled, his voice a graveled mess - he wondered fleetingly if his throat was bleeding as much as his head, the red-hot pain of a pulsing head wound countering the freeze from the snowbank he was still sprawled on.

Bond gave a small smirk. He turned to his earpiece and rattled off a list of coordinates, assuring that the "Quartermaster has been recovered" and requesting immediate medical assistance. Q let the words pour over him like syrup, filling in the cracks of his brain that weren't yet fully alert, and returned to following the beating drum in the distance - which, he shortly realized, was his own heartbeat in his throat.

Bond's hand resumed its careful smoothing at Q's forehead. Bond spoke again, and Q could feel himself jerked back into awareness, as though being lurched up a ladder against his will. "Q? Stay with me, Q. Stay awake. Rattle off formulas or moan about how you need a cuppa, but don't fall asleep. How about you complain about the recovery team? It took us a bloody age to find you."

Q gave a barely-there chuckle, and with great effort wrenched his eyes open once more, his eyes searing into the bright grey clouds above him. An image of a teabag strolled through his mind, and he was about to ask hazily when his last cup of Earl Gray had been, but lucidity beat him to it and he felt the smooth prod of logic take over. "Where are we?"

"Khibiny Mountains. Russia. More specifically, a snowbank right outside of the underground facility you were unceremoniously tossed out of when you refused to confess all of MI6's sins."

Q gave a jolt as a violent shock of shivers tore through him. "Next time, I'll be sure to postpone my kidnapping until the Springtime. How's mid-March sound?" His teeth began to chatter loudly against the still mountain air.

Bond gave a barely-there chuckle, though the lines around his eyes faded marginally with fondness. "You'll have to fill out the proper paperwork. Mustn't break MI6 protocol, Quartermaster."

Q gave a sharp inhale of laughter as his chattering teeth worked around his struggling lungs. His head gave another throb. Why was it so _bloody_ cold? He meant to phrase that last thought as a question, but his stammering jaw had other plans. As though on command, Bond's hands moved to the shock blanket wrapped securely around Q's form and needlessly tucked it in more firmly around him. Q tried to override his body's need to shiver, attempting to manually control his own body temperature, but all he managed to do was tense up every part of his body and strain his aching muscles. He dragged out another tight-lipped moan, tension leaving him and instead giving way to the tremors; he screwed his eyes shut as new limbs began to exclaim their discomfort. He turned his head towards Bond, who was looking at him with - was that sympathy? His lips were tightly sealed in a firm line, though his eyes were alight with concern. He moved his hand back to Q's forehead and smoothed the other up and down his cold-deadened arms.

Q supplied his own answer. "Sh-shock is wearing off, I a-assume. B-bloody Russia and their s-sodding wint-ters. Fucking abd-ductors lack all m-manners of c-c-courtesy when it comes to g-geography."

Bond gave huffed, his breath escaping in a hot white puff. "I think it's fair to assume that what they lack in courtesy, they make up for in brute strength."

Q gave the closest thing to a snort he could muster. "P-please Bond. Those brutes were an ap-petizer. I've seen you tear into m-meals more savagely than a c-couple of g-gits from the K-Kremlin."

Bond gave a true smile, teeth like pearls amidst the snow. "But of course, Quartermaster. Since my bedside manner wasn't up to snuff, I indulged in more physical outlets of massacre."

Q would have laughed again, but already he was feeling the exhaustion of pain pulling him down. His head burst into stars and wide strips of light behind his eyelids, and for a moment all he could do was watch the show and bathe in the soft thrums of agony. He clenched his jaw, which of course didn't go unnoticed by Bond (_espionage _Q reminded himself).

"What hurts? Don't fall asleep. Keep talking."

Q could almost feel the wound on the back of his head pumping out blood from his heartbeat, and images of clogged drains flurried to the surface of his mind. Responding only to pain-addled confusion, he made to turn onto his side, to let the viscous liquid flow freely and unobstructedly, but Bond's hand flew to his chest, pushing him into the ground.

"No Q, try not to move. Concussion. Remember?"

"H-hurts..." he mumbled out in a slur. But Bond understood; the free hand that wasn't applying pressure to his chest moved to his cheek, and Q leaned into the touch of the textured glove that was offering blissful warmth and protection to Bond's hand. He tried to focus on anything other than his head, but the only other voices he could hear were the screams of his overtaxed muscles and the groan of his cracked ribs. Finally zeroing in on the extent of his injuries, Q felt all at once trapped, as the pain of breathing, moving, _and_ thinking began to take their toll.

Bond sensed the change and shifted uneasily. Were Q not suffering head trauma, he would have carried him down this godforsaken mountain himself. But the restraint he never showed towards his missions, his weapons, or any kind of public property manifested itself in the protection of his Quartermaster. All he could offer until the MI6 choppers arrived was reassurance that the pain _would_ end.

His hand on Q's chest splayed out across his heart, thumb stroking against the frantic rhythm. His other hand carded through Q's unruly hair, crunching through lingering snow and ice. "Any minute now, Q. Then you can sleep. You need to stick around so you can fix all the pretty toys I broke trying to find you."

Q's eyes shot open and he gave a vindictive twitch. His voice regained a bit of his old authority. "007 I swear on her Majesty's throne that if you lost another Walther, I'm issuing you a standard-grade tissue box on your next romp around the terrorist ring."

Bond gave another teeth-bearing smile. "Make that a tissue box AND a squirt gun. The Walther made a lovely boomerang, but the isolated wall-grenade didn't survive its collision with the Head Thug's cranium. Might I suggest some additional field tests in skull-resistance?"

Q gave a groan that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of pain he still felt - but at the same time, a trickle of warm familiarity seeped into his slacked limbs. The meetings with Financial and Engineering would be a headache to rival his concussion, but until then, the thought of his office in Q-Branch, his Scrabble mug, and the pointed features of James Bond lurking like a lummox in the shadows of Q-Branch while he was off-duty suddenly seemed attainable again. No, this snowbank was temporary. The worst was behind him, and London stood a glimmering light just within reach.

Bond settled, moving his hands to cup Q's cheeks fondly, his thumbs brushing over Q's icy lips and smoothing beneath his jawline. Q settled further into the shock blanket, honing back in on the rhythm of the drums and the movement of Bond's gentle hands while the faint echo of choppers finally sang across the distance.


End file.
